I, Who Is No One
by Diviana Foresman
Summary: Eh... short little dark ficcie, that it is... implied Kenshin+Tomoe


I, Who Is No One  
  
Diviana Foresman  
  
June 20, 2003  
  
***  
  
authour's note : I don't own Samurai X, Rurouni Kenshin, the characters, et cetera. Do not sue me for I am but a lonely wandering writer whose only company is not a sword and scar as I struggle through the battle of life.  
  
translations : A ronin is a samurai who has no master or does not belong to a shogun's troop.  
  
***  
  
I wandered lonely through the land, looking for requital, searching for a forgiveness I knew I did not deserve.  
  
I could not bear to stay in that place Sendai, could not bear the awful memories that forced me into this life as a wandering manslayer. She was the reason I became what I did. If I had not killed her, we would have lived like that, forever, as only simple farmers living in a cabin, watching the snow fall as we whispered near the fire.  
  
And so I left, seeking a life so unlike that that I had since lived. I could not let myself be hurt by anyone else, and so, I became who I did, and fought in the battles I fought in, killed those who had no choice but to fall before my angry sword. It seemed my very existence revolved only around war and bloodshed. It seemed I was content with this life as a samurai, even if I was reminded of her with every swing of my sword.  
  
And then, the emperour was succeeded, the government changed, and I was no longer needed nor wanted as a samurai. I had nothing, yet again, and so I set out on a quest to find something I still do not know of.  
  
My travels took me clear across the land, and though I met many people, I could not bear to get close to any of them. I just could not let myself become a monster again, and take their lives as I did hers.  
  
And I wandered lonely through the land, looking, I suppose, for a meaning. I had been Shinta, but am no longer; I had been Kenshin but not anymore; I had been Batosai, and am not any longer. I was nothing but a simple wanderer wearing a sword at his hip and carrying this cross-shaped scar upon my cheek as proof of who I used to be.  
  
I grew weary and tired as, in all my twenty-some years, I still could not be who I was meant to be. And so I allowed myself to accept a gracious offer from her, she who wears eyes the same as she who I had killed. I vowed to protect her as I did not her, and I suppose I also allowed myself the pleasure of getting close to her and the others.  
  
She who has eyes like those of the body beneath the snows of Sendai, he who reminds me of who I used to have been as Shinta, she who keeps me from drifting into the past, he who reminds me of what little a childhood I had. They are all my family, now, as have many more, and I have let them become close to me as I have done no one else but her.  
  
And then she died. Gone like her, unprotected by me, and I could not find it within my self to carry on. I had once again ben the reason for needless deaths of those I cared for. This was the reason I had become a wanderer, this was why I had kept some distance from others. This is what I had been afraid and wary of for so long.  
  
So I wandered again, searching for forgiveness for a guilt I carried. Once again, I was cursed with this uncurable bleeding from the scar upon my cheek. It had not bleed since she died, and now that she who was so much like her was gone as well, the crimson river flowed freely.  
  
I forbade the others to come after me, afraid they too would be harmed by my feelings for them. I traveled back to Sendai, unable to think of another place to go, and I sit here now, even after so long.  
  
I have been here for so long, yet not long enough. The snow has fallen again, and covers my body. The cursed sword I have born for so many years sits beside me, also buried though not as deep as the grave of hers who I sit in front.  
  
The sky is fading into black, and the stars are refusing to shine. Not a sound is made through the forest - even my breathing is inaudible as ragged as it is.  
  
I beg her for forgiveness, for requital, saying a requiescat for the soul of hers that I marred so long ago with my betrayal. And her answer is carried on the silent wind. I slip my blood-stained hand beneath this white blanket and uncover my sword, laying the sheath beside me as I lay on her grave. I spread my arms about, the resulting indention in the snow resembling a winged creature, and I point the sword down.  
  
I close my eyes, even as I hear his voice, "Kenshin, wait," sounding form the trees, and I bring down my sword.  
  
I have been Shinta, I have been Kenshin, I had been Batosai for a while, and I was even me for so little a time. I am nobody as I could not find myself through all this turmoil. I could not let that rub onto the rest of the ones I care for.  
  
His voice calls again, fading, as I let my fingers fall from this blasted sword of mine. "Kenshin?!"  
  
I have been Shinta, I have been Kenshin. I have been Batosai and I have been a wandering ronin. Now, I am only dead.  
  
***  
  
owari  
  
*** 


End file.
